My fist – a home of dreams

This picture you see is a firework,
a shooter of transparent memories.
A vivid piece of artwork, fumbling across my face
with veins growing up in the sky
outwards and inwards
a low key noise/ stammering through the delicacy of time/
Isn’t it strange?
The oval diaphragm painted so calmly.
I see this pink sapphire picture
and I see my eyes there,
holding green, surreal dreams of a colorful palette
A quiet breeze of stars.
I see this starry studded picture now,
vehemently sipping bridge of cold laughter,
This is my evolution now,
trees beaming in a subservience forest.

I like to think the poet in you is not afraid to explore boundaries or push yourself outside of your comfort zone making for supberb poetry. Great poets can do it successfully. As you have shown us time and time again.

Devika, I usually read all your posts. The predominance of “dreams” married with powerful visual thoughts, and the juxtaposition of images are absolutely stunning. You are a fabulous poetess.
Have a magic afternoon.
G.

Blog Stats

Categories

A dreamer and a believer for the upliftment of women rights. A published poet, author, writer. Believes in dancing and cooking amazing food for hungry souls at times.
Loves to write and write till the moon is satisfied.
My writings can be found at Visual Verse, Indian Periodical, Sick Lit mag, Duane's Poetree, Thistle magazine, among various others.
Curator of Olive Skins.